


no human tongue could describe

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, therapeutic gardening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:31:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-candlesticks, Valjean and Myriel keep in touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stephantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephantom/gifts).



There is a gash on Valjean’s forehead; it stings when sweat touches it, itches maddeningly, but he is aware of the eyes of the policeman watching him and the gun held ready in the policeman’s hands. So he sits still, and dares not stir. His cuffed hands lie heavy in his lap. He fixes his gaze on the floor a few inches from his toes.

The sound of footsteps on linoleum does not rouse him from his reverie, even though he knows what they herald – an officer of the law to usher in the witness to his crime – he does not care, he does not react.

“Sir,” he hears the policeman say, “this is him – we found him running down the street an hour ago. These were in his bag, sir –”

He hears the clank of metal, the rustle of the plastic bag he had wrapped the valuables in, but the policeman cuts off short and there are different footsteps now – not the tread of heavy boots but the incongruous soft pad of cotton slippers, and two plaid-patterned feet swiftly enter Valjean’s field of vision.

“My friend!” A hand shocking in its gentleness catches him by the chin, tilts his head up before he can react. Valjean stares owl-eyed into a smiling face.

“It’s very good to see you again.” The words fall on his ears with the impossibility of the earth turning upside down. “I’d been meaning to find you. You left before I could give you these.” And the man who had just given him food and shelter – the priest from whose home Valjean had just fled, clutching shining silver – who was now telling the strangest lies with the mildest, calmest expression on his face – pulls a pair of candlesticks from the deep pockets of his robe.

He holds them out to Valjean. Dumbly, Valjean stares at him.

“Sir,” he hears the police officer say, “are you saying this is not the man who stole your silver?”

“I am saying there has been no theft, officer.” The priest smiles and places a hand on Valjean’s shoulder. “Come, friend – you must still be very tired.” He looks pointedly at the handcuffs. “Officers, if you would be so good…?”

The shackles are off, the bag of silver is placed into his nerveless hands. A touch on his elbow brings him to his feet; he walks with confusion numbing his senses. All he knows is the grip of a warm hand on his upper arm, guiding him – retracing streets last crossed in the back of a police car, past alleyways through which he attempted to take his flight, until at last they reach the little building in which Valjean, not three hours past, had been unable to sleep on a too-soft cot.

The priest pulls out a key and opens the door. Warm light floods through. “Come in,” he says, “my brother.”

Wordlessly, Valjean obeys.

“You will probably need to stay here for a little while,” says the priest, “if that’s all right with you – it would probably be best if you didn’t show your face for a little while.”

Valjean finds his tongue, heavy as it sits in his mouth.

“If it is all right with me,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, “why you let me – why you are –” He makes a gesture with his hands, for the first time, and the silver clanks in the bag he’d forgotten he was holding; he starts violently, dropping the bag with a crash, and then finally begins to weep – like a child, the sobs racking his body.

Warm arms encircle him and hold him through it. Clinging desperately, lost in roiling waves of thought that churn within him, Valjean washes ashore.


	2. Chapter 2

There is sweat running into Valjean’s eyes and flecks of dirt caught in his hair, and he wipes it away with the wrist of his gloved hand before returning to his task: extracting an overgrown bush with its gnarled roots sunk deep into the earth of the abandoned lot.

It’s a promising space, a good location for a garden; he has the permits from the city and enough community support that there’s no want of hands for help now, everyone clearing away the weeds and thorns. Tearing up the plant, he tosses it aside and gets to his feet; on the way up his eyes catch familiar shoes and he pauses before straightening up all the way.

“Mr. Myriel,” he says.

Myriel looks almost the same, though he’s wearing absurd flappy shorts as befits the weather – an oddly warm, humid day for early spring.

“Good morning, Mr. Madeleine,” he says, and smiles.

 

They walk to a nearby café together. “At first, when I heard, I was not sure it was you, my friend,” Myriel murmurs along the way. “But when I was told of the gardens – yes. That is certainly my friend who tended our plot so carefully when he stayed with us.”

Valjean smiles distractedly, somewhat panicky, and Myriel notices. "Would you like me to leave soon?" he asks quietly. "I don't want to risk your safety, if that is what you fear -"

"No," says Valjean. There is an odd look on his face. “Please. Do stay.”

The woman behind the café register recognizes Valjean, and calls, “Hello, Mr. Madeleine!” cheerfully as they make their way to a table. Two coffees materialize quickly.

They sit.

It is a somewhat one-sided conversation at first. Valjean, Myriel realizes, has clearly changed in the years that had passed – a neater beard, hair somewhat longer, suits instead of the wrinkled shirt and jeans he had worn in the days after his release – but one thing, his reticence, has certainly remained constant. Myriel had seen the news already, of a city’s economy revitalized and communities benefiting from the contributions of one wealthy businessman with little information on his past, but eventually Valjean begins to speak more of what he had not known: specifics of the school, for instance, stories of the neighborhood, the toys crafted for young children, the little garden-plot of his own that Valjean tends.

It is when Valjean speaks of these things that Myriel hears a touch of pride, small and confused and still so utterly humble, but good to hear all the same.

 

“Do you remember what you told me?” Valjean asks, wiping off a splash of coffee from the tabletop.

Myriel has just stood up after several hours, and is caught in the middle of a stretch, relieving the cramp in his back. He eases his arms back down and gives Valjean a quizzical look. “I told you many things. You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Well.” Valjean looks down. “You gave me money and told me – be honest. That you had turned me from evil, and towards good –” His voice is faltering and unsure.

“My friend.” At those words some of the tension eases from Valjean’s body. Myriel touches Valjean’s shoulder. “When the lot you are clearing is free of stinging plants, is it clear for good?”

“No.”

“Then you must tend it, and plant the flowers that bloom, and weed when you must. But the soil is still clean and sound, and I do not think you will have any trouble on that front.”

Valjean looks up, and Myriel smiles and takes his hand.

Outside, a soft shower has begun to fall, raindrops pattering gently down to soak the earth.

**Author's Note:**

> ugh so like, this should have been shippy!! there's so much you can do with a valjean/myriel relationship, particularly one that continues as valjean goes on to do his valjeany things except perhaps without as much self-loathing or inability to forgive himself??? but then my brain got caught on that and pooped out :(


End file.
